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It never thence can be eras'd.

But, rifing up, you call it Taste.

'Twere foolish for a drudge to chuse

A gufto, which he cannot use.

Better difcard the idle whim,

What's He to Tafte? or Tafte to Him?
For me, it hurts me to the foul
To brook confinement or controul;
Still to be pinion'd down to teach
The syntax, and the parts of speech;
Or, what perhaps is drudging worse,
The links, and joints, and rules of verse;
To deal out authors by retail,

Like penny pots of Oxford ale;
-Oh! 'tis a fervice irksome more
Than tugging at the flavish oar.

Yet fuch his task, a difmal truth, Who watches o'er the bent of youth; And while, a paltry ftipend earning, He fows the richest seeds of learning,

And

And tills their minds with proper care,

And fees them their due produce bear,
No joys, alas! his toil beguile,

His own lies fallow all the while.

"Yet ftill he's in the road, you fay, "Of learning.” — Why, perhaps, he may. But turns like horfes in a mill,

Nor getting on, nor standing still :
For little way his learning reaches,

Who reads no more than what he teaches.

"Yet you can fend advent'rous youth, "In fearch of letters, tafte, and truth, "Who ride the highway road to knowlege Through the plain turnpikes of a college.” True. — Like way-pofts, we ferve to fhew The road which travellers fhou'd go;

Who jog along in easy pace,

Secure of coming to the place,

Yet find, return whene'er they will,

The Poft, and its direction ftill:

Which stands an useful unthank'd guide,
To many a paffenger befide.

'Tis hard to carve for others meat, And not have time one's felf to eat.

Tho', be it always understood,

Our appetites are full as good.

"But there have been, and proofs appear,

"Who bore this load from

year to

to year;

"Whose claim to letters, parts, and wit,
"The world has ne'er disputed yet.
"Whether the flowing mirth prevail
"In Wesley's fong or humorous tale;
"Or happier Bourne's expreffion please
"With graceful turns of claffic ease;
"Or Oxford's well-read poet fings
"Pathetic to the ear of kings:
"These have indulg'd the mufe's flight,
"Nor loft their time or credit by't;
" Nor fuffer'd fancy's dreams to prey
"On the due business of the day.

" Verse

"Verfe was to them a recreation "Us'd but by way of relaxation."

Your inftances are fair and true,
And genius I refpect with you..
I envy none their honest praise;
I seek to blast no scholar's bays:
Still let the graceful foliage fpread
Its greenest honours round their head,
Bleft, if the Mufes' hand entwine
A sprig at least to circle mine!

Come,-I admit, you tax me right.
Prudence, 'tis true, was out of fight,
And you may whisper all you meet,
The man was vague and indifcreet.
Yet tell me, while you cenfure me,

Are

you from error found and free? Say, does your breaft no bias hide, Whose influence draws the mind afide ?

All have their hobby-horse, you see, From Triftram down to you and me.

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Ambition, fplendour, may be thine ;
Eafe, indolence, perhaps, are mine.
Though prudence, and our nature's pride
May wish our weaknesses to hide,

And fet their hedges up before 'em,

Some sprouts will branch, and straggle o'er 'em..

Strive, fight against her how you will,
Nature will be the miftrefs ftill,

And though you curb with double rein,
She'll run away with us again.

But let a man of parts be wrong, 'Tis triumph to the leaden throng. The fools fhall cackle out reproof, The afs fhall raise his hoof; very

And he who holds in his poffeffion,

The single virtue of discretion,
Who knows no overflow of spirit,
Whose want of paffions is his merit,
Whom wit and taste and judgment flies,
Shall shake his noddle, and seem wise.

PART

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